The Theory of Everything (21 page)

“We'll be back in a second,” the short guard said as he dumped me into a small room with no windows.

The lock clicked, and I fell into one of the chairs. If Red Sweater decided to press charges, it was all over. Not only would I not be able to find Dad, I'd barely be able to find myself if I ended up in a mental hospital. I took out my phone, but there were only a few bars, horrible reception. I texted Finny anyway:

SOPHIE: Trapped in small room in library. Police coming. Help!

That was weird, so I texted again:

SOPHIE: Lobby. Turn right at the front. Conference room down hall. Find me.

And, in case he didn't get the first one:

SOPHIE: Police coming. Assault charge. Help me!

The phone looked like it was trying to send the texts and wasn't having any luck. I looked around the room, but it was empty. No rulers, no crowbars, nothing to pry the door open. I reached into my wallet, took out my Havencrest High School identification card, walked over to the door and slid it between the door and the frame. I jiggled it and turned the handle, hoping it would give way. It didn't, so I pulled it out and started again. And again. I didn't know what I was doing, but I had to do something.

“Starting a life of crime?”

Walt appeared behind me.

“I already have one, in case you hadn't noticed,” I said. “Apparently I attack people with umbrellas.”

“How rogue,” he said. “And your side of the story?”

My eyes welled up. I wanted to speak, but my emotions spoke for me instead.

“It's okay,” Walt said, putting his arm around me. “You're okay.”

He knew. I didn't have to tell him how scared I'd been that I wouldn't make it off Q*bert mountain or escape from books bent on destruction. I didn't have to explain that the whole traveling thing was starting to make sense to me but that it terrified me. He knew. He also knew three travels in less than three hours was too much for anyone. I leaned against his large, furry body, letting the rhythm of his breath guide mine.

“Sometimes you can stop them,” Walt said, smoothing my hair with his paw.

“The police?”

“The panic,” he said. “Sometimes the episodes, but mostly the panic.”

“What do you mean?” I said, sniffling. “Like yoga?”

“Like the more grounded you are, the less likely you are to float away.”

I smiled. I hadn't realized how much I'd missed his fortune cookie wisdom.

He squeezed me. I hoped he'd never let go, that even though it wasn't how things worked, he'd take me with him to the panda-verse anyway. We'd hang out in trees, and he'd chew on bamboo, and I'd learn how to relax. How to do that breathing thing.

“Clock's ticking, princess,” he said, releasing me. He took my ID and headed for the door. “So you forgive me?”

“Yes,” I said. “Especially if you get me out of here.”

He jiggled the credit card in the door. “They don't call me sticky fingers for nothing.”

I laughed. “I think that's what they call shoplifters.”

“Whatever,” he said. “I can bust you out of here like a bad tomato.”

“That doesn't make sense either,” I said. “But I'm rooting for you. Have any advice for me once I get out?”

“Read the rest of your dad's book,” Walt said. “The good part is coming up. And then believe it.”

“No, I mean, how to actually get out of the
building.
”

“Oh!” he said. “That's easy. Blend in like you belong.”

Belonging wasn't one of my things, and neither was blending, so I'd have to fake it.

“Tell me this—are the answers starting to come?” Walt asked.

“Some of them,” I said.

“That's good! You're definitely on the right path. The world is making space for your voyage.”

“Like Columbus?” I said, grabbing my bag, preparing to push off.

“Exactly,” Walt said, popping the lock and handing me my card. “Maiden voyages are the best voyages. Now, get out of here.”

I blew him a kiss, opened the door and blended in with the crowd, squeezing my way through name tags and fanny packs, camera bags and maps, a group tour that happened at the perfect time. I was a salmon, swimming upstream. And then I was outside, breathing fresh air, jogging. Which turned into running, because I was officially on the run. Which then turned into Where the Heck Was I Going Next?

How to Survive Becoming a Fugitive
by Sophie Sophia

1. Try not to become a fugitive in the first place.
   
2. If you do, wear comfortable shoes.
   
3. Realize that running has become a way of life now, as has sneaking, crouching, freezing and hiding. Embrace them.
   
4. Get a tattoo of your future inmate numbers to remind yourself why you're running.
   
5. Actually, don't get a tattoo. And don't become a fugitive in the first place. (It's overrated.)
   

I found myself in front of a frosted glass door at the other end of Meyer Hall.

“Come in,” Dr. Russo replied when I knocked.

Her voice was deep, and she looked like a younger Sophia Loren. Mom said Sophia Loren was the epitome of glamour and that having a little curve was a good thing. I remembered looking down at my stick body and thinking I would never have any curves, not that it mattered, boys didn't like me, anyway. But that had changed. Not the curves so much, but the boys. One boy, at least.

Dr. Russo looked up from her papers and eyed me over her bifocals. Either her eyelashes were fake, or she wore tons of mascara.

“And you would be?”

“Sophie Sophia, Angelino Sophia's daughter,” I said. “Dr. Perratto sent me.”

“Sophie of the Sophie Effect,” she said, taking off her glasses. “My day just got a lot more interesting.”

I wasn't sure what the Sophie Effect was, but I was about to find out. After the library, my first instinct was to run, but then I realized no one knew me there. I wasn't a registered student. And once the security guards opened that door and discovered I was gone, they'd probably be too embarrassed to pursue me, anyway. So why not continue down to the path toward Dad?

“Have a seat,” Dr. Russo said, motioning to the yellow velvet chair in front of her. “Sparkling soda water?”

She got up, picked up a vintage red siphon and shook it. Then she squeezed the trigger—just like in the movies—and shot fizzy water into two glasses, finishing each one off with a slice of lemon.

I took out my phone, which was vibrating all over the place, and texted Finny that I was okay, I'd escaped the police, I was with another physicist and would text him when I was finished. At the moment, though, I was about to enjoy a mocktail.

“Everything okay?” she said, handing me a glass.

“Yes,” I said. “Thank you, Dr. Russo.”

“You're welcome,” she said. “And call me Betty.”

I sipped my super-fancy drink and Betty leaned back in her chair and adjusted her long, mustard scarf. I looked around at her office: shelves brimming with books, an Oriental rug, a vase filled with maroon dahlias and a framed black-and-white photo of the cosmos covering one wall. I wasn't sure if I was going to learn about theoretical physics or engage in talk therapy.

“How's your father? I haven't seen him in ages.”

“He's missing,” I said.

“Yes, well, he'll come back,” she said. “He always does. Chances are, he's in the same time frame as we are, only in a parallel universe.”

I loved how the phrase “parallel universe” rolled off her tongue.

“Dr. Perratto said there's no way to prove that,” I said.

“That's where the good doctor is wrong,” she said. “It sounds like you two discussed your father's book.”

“We did,” I said. “I've only read the first few chapters, but it was enough to talk with him about it. And find out he thought Dad was crazy.”

“What's crazy?” she said, waving her hand in the air. “The idea that a theoretical physicist might stumble upon and then pursue an idea so challenging that it threatens everyone else?”

She was passionate, just like Dad.

“But Dr. Perratto said you can't mix physics and emotion,” I said, leaning back in the chair.

She laughed. “Dr. Perratto has a lot of rules. Did he also say that traveling's not possible?”

“Yes,” I said, grinning. “But I think he's wrong.”

“Because?”

“This is theoretical physics,” I said. And then I quoted Mr. Maxim. “Anything is possible.”

“Bravo,” she said, raising her glass, which made me raise mine.

“Here's to your father, who believes in the impossible,” she said. “And to you, who are pursuing it.”

We clinked glasses like the first day of school. Like poker with pandas.

“Now, on to the business of traveling,” she said. “What do you know about souvenirs?”

I reached up and felt the whistle around my neck.

“Less from Dad's book and more from life,” I said. “I have souvenirs, too.”

CHAPTER THREE:
THE LAW OF SOUVENIRS

In order to prove a theory, one needs physical, measurable proof. And in the case of traveling, that proof is souvenirs. A souvenir is an object a traveler brings back from his or her travels. It can be anything—a key, a rock, a piece of clothing—but it is undeniably from another place. Most likely another universe.

Logistically, the traveler doesn't acquire the souvenir. It simply shows up, usually in a pocket, once traveling has concluded. This gives souvenirs a dual purpose. On the one hand, they help you remember where you've been. And on the other, they act as a cue, letting you know that you've returned.

Betty walked over to a large red chest that was next to her credenza.

“One of the benefits of being one of your father's research assistants was the actual research,” she said. She opened the chest and objects spilled onto the floor—jars and bowling pins, animal masks and a disco ball. There was a tin of drawing pencils and a tuxedo, reel-to-reel tapes and what looked like a magnifying glass.

“Whoa,” I said, kneeling in front of the disco ball. “Can I touch them?”

“Of course,” she said. “They've traveled through many dimensions. I think they can handle your fingers.”

I picked up a blue glass jar and saw a ticket stub in it. Depeche Mode.

“Isn't the shade of blue lovely?” she said.

It was more than lovely, it was validation. Proof. A weight off my shoulders but a bigger weight in my heart. I had to find Dad.

“What's the Sophie Effect?” I said.

Betty walked over to her desk, picked up Dad's book, opened it to the middle and gave it to me.

“It's the theory that explains traveling,” she said. “And it was inspired by you.”

CHAPTER FOUR: THE SOPHIE EFFECT

The brain is composed of billions of neurons. But those neurons are no match for the emotion of love. Think of how strongly a parent feels about a child, how powerful a first love is and how the love between a husband and wife feels like a bond that cannot be broken. These types of love fill the heart, making it feel complete.

The Sophie Effect proposes that when you lose that type of love, the effect is so strong it creates minuscule holes in the heart, like gaps. These gaps connect you to the gaps between the strings, the fabric of the universes. When triggered by loneliness, the enemy of the heart, this connection allows you to slip through the strings to parallel universes. Often without even knowing it.

I fell back in my chair, dizzy.

“Sophie?” Betty said, refilling my glass. “Are you okay?”

“So you're telling me that breakups cause actual holes in the heart?” I said.

She laughed. “That's what your father is telling you,” she said.

“No wonder people write so many songs about being dumped.” I sank deeper into the chair. “When it ends, it actually damages you.”

“It's just a theory,” Betty said, gently taking the book from my hands and placing it on her desk. “I know it's a lot to take in.”

It was more than a lot. It could be everything: the answer I'd been looking for. The key that would keep me out of a mental hospital forever.

“Do you think it's true?”

“I think it was true for your father,” she said. “And I think it might be true for you.”

I didn't know why I felt so angry, but I did. I wanted to be solved. I wanted my episodes to make sense, and so far, this was the best explanation. It wasn't schizophrenia or lucid dreaming, it was travel to parallel universes.

What I didn't like was that love made it happen, like the love between a father and a child. Like the kind that inspired you to write a book or name a principle after someone. Dad might have disappeared because of Mom, but I wondered if he stayed gone because of me. Not science, not protons and neutrons, but a bundle of matter, squeezed into an elephant skirt.

|||||||||||

When Mom and Dad fought, Dad disappeared. And the more they argued, the more he faded away, only to pop back in out of nowhere. When the house was angry, Dad was angry, too, leaving on adventures or hiding in the basement, emerging only when he had a new idea to share. Usually it was something that didn't make sense, which made Mom yell at him all over again, continuing the cycle: yell, disappear, apologize, repeat.

|||||||||||

“That's it,” I said, hopping up from my chair. “Repeat.”

“What?” Betty was sitting in the other yellow velvet chair beside me.

“Dad was the only test subject, right?”

“Correct,” she said. “That's one of the reasons the scientific community negated his efforts.”

“So I'll be a test subject,” I said, getting excited. “Maybe I can't find Dad, but the one thing I
can
do is prove his theory. He's not crazy. I'm not crazy, either, but the only way to know that for sure is to prove that the Sophie Effect is true with another test subject: me. And if I can prove that—”

“Then you can prove you're traveling,” Betty said. “Brilliant.”

And then it hit me.

“Why wouldn't Dad prove the opposite?” I said.

“What do you mean?” Betty said, leaning forward.

“If the Sophie Effect explains traveling, it should also explain
not
traveling,” I said. “You create holes, you travel. You plug up the holes, you stay put like everyone else.”

Betty smiled. “You think just like your father.”

I thought about the panda-verse, the music-video-verse and the one where objects animated. Traveling.

And then I thought about eating in the cafeteria with no episodes, coffee dates without disappearing, seeing Mom enjoy me again instead of worrying about what I was going to do next. Not traveling.

“Dad must have known,” I said, sitting up. “So why wasn't it in the book? Why didn't he try to stop traveling?”

Betty walked over to her credenza and picked up a zebra mask. “Maybe he did,” she said, bringing the mask in front of her face. “Maybe he is.”

I thought about Dad hanging with The Cure, getting hair tips from Robert Smith. Or Dad with a panda friend, like Walt, on a string of continuous slumber parties. Maybe he was enjoying it, or maybe he wanted to come back but couldn't. Maybe the holes were too large or too many for him to fill on his own.

“He needs me,” I said, standing up. Finally getting it. This wasn't about me, it was about him. “Dad needs my help.”

Betty put the mask aside and stood next to me. “I'm sure he'd never say no to that,” she said. “He spoke very highly of you.”

And I hadn't spoken very highly of him, not in a while. But as it turned out, he was thinking about me the whole time, making tapes and trying to devise a theory that would save us both. Now it was my turn, which meant it was time to do what I did best: make a list.

How to Prove the Sophie Effect (a.k.a. How to Close the Gaps in Your Heart)
by Sophie Sophia

1. Fall madly, deeply in love with someone.
   
2. Go to a yoga class and fall in love with the world.
   
3. If number one doesn't work, develop a crush. And then write him a poem.
   
4. Do something nice for someone else.
   
5. And if all else fails, draw little hearts on things. It can't hurt.
   

Betty looked at my list.

“Remember, I'm fourteen,” I said. “My experience with love is limited.”

“This is a great start,” Betty said, smiling. “My advice? Be open to all kinds of love. There are many ways to love a person.”

I thought about Drew. I didn't love him yet, but I loved the idea of him. It was different than the way I loved my shoes, which was different than the way I loved the idea of proving Dad's theory. All of which were different than the way I loved Finny—I had to find him. If anyone could help me brainstorm and cover off on all of the love bases, it was Finn.

“I like that idea,” I said. “Thank you.”

“Of course. And call me anytime with questions,” she said, handing me her card. “I'm a big fan of your father's.”

I wanted to high-five her, but that didn't seem very scientific.

“Me too,” I said, shaking her hand instead, happy not to be the only member of Dad's fan club.